Modern Romanticism

Tears run down
all the sides of it,
outlining its shape
in steady streams,
filling in the spaces
where light
went missing.

It looks dark
in the worst way
it can be believed
to ever be.

It never tires
when it’s constant
in who it feeds,
from fields it seeds.

It’s a mere mask
to foil all honesty
that could pave
a road, from the pieces
of stones, of clay
for something better
to portray.

A wilted figure
kneels in submission
to bleak clouds,
burning from pressure
in straining legs.

Is there anyone
who will answer
this fatal prayer,
before the final layer
gets added?